


Punish

by DreamTillDawn



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Dont mess with the mighty nein, Temporary Character Death, maybe dark mighty nein but weve all seen them when one of their own goes down or dies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-14
Updated: 2020-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:01:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23137342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DreamTillDawn/pseuds/DreamTillDawn
Summary: Fjord worried that Caleb carrying the orb would lead to Uk'otoa attacking him.Few realize the ferocity with which the Might Nein destroy anyone who hurts one of their own, but the followers of Uk'otoa are going to learn.
Comments: 18
Kudos: 226





	Punish

**Author's Note:**

> After Fjord mentioned Caleb might get hurt for carrying the orb and immediately wanted Caleb to get hurt for carrying the orb just to experience the angst that would occur between them. AND THEN I had an art idea of the events leading to said angst and since I have not the time or talent to draw the panels of said scene the way I'd like I chose to write it instead. Also because too few people in the MN's world realize just how powerful and effective they are or see them in action. No editing - I die like the tired writer I am.

_“Nein. I’ll stay here. I’m going to spend the day looking over my vault of amber spell to try and ensure no one can access the contents should I... be unable to. You all go ahead.”_

One decision, a moment, a day ago or maybe two – in the moment it didn’t matter enough to remember the when and how.

Caleb stood before the court, a few steps ahead of them with all his pretty words and pleading of continued peace for company. The other’s had their eyes on the Bright Queen or, in Jester’s case, a current sketch of the Bright Queen’s newest finery. Their latest deeds for the dynasty were little in comparison to their continued efforts at easing the tension between newly peaceful nations.

Caduceus noticed first, of course, that Caleb’s pause between words was not a thoughtful one. The wizard was a master of dramatic timing and often as good, or better, with his words as Fjord though the minds he went up against were often too far opposed to his ideas to be swayed. This was no dramatic pause, no deep breath to steady himself for a new string of poetic words Caduceus didn’t know all the meanings of.

He sucked in a breath, a low, quiet sound of surprise and pain that made the cleric’s ears shift before his eyes did. On a single glance, there was nothing wrong with the wizard. Caduceus didn’t pick up the problem first. No, first he saw the way Caleb’s body was stiff – rigid – instead of loose and bowed in submission of rank. His hands were tense claws held out at his sides instead of flowing with his speech. The first thing that came to mind was stress, that perhaps Caleb had misspoken and the court was about to become quite furious with them.

One foot shifted, Caleb stepping away, a frozen hand jerking up towards his chest. He seized forward and made a choking sound that finally drew the eyes of Beau and Fjord as Caduceus saw the problem. High above them there were several members of the Bright Queen’s court, including Kryn herself, on the edges of their seats or out of them as bright red burst across the chest of the human in the middle of his speech. His friends save one had not yet seen the wound piercing him straight through the chest as they’d seen thrice before among their own.

Rather than scream or cry out in pain, what draws the eyes at last of Veth and Jester and Yasha and any who have not yet seen the change in the few heartbeats that have come to their end is the laugh of a man who has spent his life in pain. He does not fear death as it spreads through him like rot, burning in a way he knows so well. He laughs like he’s done something wicked and _oh how he has_.

Caleb rips himself off the sword that has killed him, managing to turn just so slightly as he rips the amber vault from his neck to hold by its chain in the light. He looks where his blood drips from empty space and grins as the amber spins in his grip.

“Your god...” He gasps a last breath, body held up from its final fall by the force of will to have the last words alone, “ **dies with me**.”

As it falls with him the piece of amber glows as if it has been lit with flame from the inside and shatters into burning shards and sparkling jewel dust.

The screams of the Nein seem like they should be deafening, and perhaps they are from the blue tiefling whose voice booms unnaturally. There is a moment, a beat only, before the battle begins that the guards hear the call to arms. And they make it steps only before the battle is done.

A creature, wielding the magic of an eldritch god and the face of a sea born monster, appears behind Caleb’s body holding a sword of fathoms. In a flash there are more, behind the Nein, to either side, the full gathered force of retaliation _that will not hold back this time_. They’ve come by magic instead of by sea and they want blood, but other than the wizard’s they will have none.

The room is an explosion of color and death. The deaths are fast but they are not so quick to be painless. There is suffering aplenty for each.

_“Guards.”_ The Bright Queen had called so casually, dismissing them, once upon a time. The Nein had surrendered. There had been no fight, only a beacon of hope for the Dynasty.

The center of the room is encircled by magic, blades and beetles and little flying creatures of fur which now have spikes the same as the lollipop which _flattens_ a man and spears him through for good measure.

_They are just mercenaries;_ she’d thought when they’d performed tasks and been happy with gold and shelter in return. _Just mercenaries_ , they’d all thought in disbelief when the group of strange little heroes had wanted to attend the peace talks of all things even though they’d orchestrated the peace.

The assailants seize and falter, their every effort to attack is turned sour by the speed with which they are bound by bane or hex. One warlock brings a blade down towards the half-orc and is dead, shards of ice spearing through his body till they rip out the other side, before he hits the ground. The barbarian has wings – feathered black as the ever night sky above the city – and has her targets cowering before her until they are headless on the ground with a single sweep of her sword. Acid drips from the blade, eating at the flesh of the empty necks which bleed onto the beautiful patterns sweeping across the Bastion floor like the speed at which the monk moves.

It’s graceful, so graceful, but hard to keep track of, the speed at which she arcs and twists. There is no one in her path that does not meet an end by the pure fury of her fists.

_“I’d like to see you try.”_ Essek had once said, and he’d regretted it – or thought he had – when he’d realized they actually might one day on a boat far from home. He had feared fighting his only friends because _he didn’t want to hurt them_. Now the fear is welling up inside him because he only saw Veth fire once but two – no three – **four** – people are now dead.

He’s known them, has shared their table and even their hot tub. He’s transported them around the world and called them crazy for taking on a dragon or diving head first into situations he _knows_ they haven’t fully thought out. But haven’t they come back from all of it?

It’s the thought in all their minds as the guards make it steps before the only enemy standing is ripped from his teleport by the paladin’s counterspell. For all they have been pat on the head and thanked for their efforts, they hadn’t really considered what kind of force of will and power it took to end a war and save the world. The six still standing and one fallen members of the Mighty Nein had defeated an ancient god. They had killed unkillable foes, monsters locked away by the most powerful forces in the world because even celestial armies could not defeat them forever.

Just mercenaries.

The little tiefling who sends happy messages at the most inconvenient times with almost incomprehensible structure is nothing like Essek has known her to be. He’s known the vast expanse of her kindness but the woman who grabs a man by the throat and sends black veins that burst and split his skin through his body is a stranger. She is an unstoppable force of nature, the perfect combination of her two powerful parents perfected into an artist that makes life and death with a flick of her hand. And in flashes around her there is the shadow of a cloaked figure who revels in her chaos.

Jester is the one who the hardest to accept this side from, but it is in them all. The rage, the fury – these happy friends are merciless. They are vicious. The fools who dared take one of the Nein from life see theirs flashing before they’ve even begun to put up a fight.

Her wings splayed, an angel of death, Yasha steps towards the leader of the attackers as the other five slowly turn from their prey to the last. Her eyes are ringed with black, focused with an intensity her rage cannot waver into recklessness. There is a smile on her face that bears her teeth like a wolf descending to feast.

“What is it your master says when you have failed?” She asks him.

The room is frozen. No one moves except the Nein. They should not be afraid of these mercenaries attacking _them_ , but they **are**. No one dares disturb the scene that makes war look almost kind.

He tries to teleport away again and the magic barely begins before it is stolen from him. Fjord is advancing behind him, sword in hand a bright glow that should relieve him of the dark shadows falling across his face but it doesn’t. This new champion of the Wildmother embodies the wrath of nature.

“Please,” is the terrified whimper that comes from the warlock as he stands frozen between the approaching avengers.

“No,” Yasha tuts, shaking her head. It’s the voice she’s used against champions before and just as before it’s time to **finish it _._** Skingorger rises and the tip presses against the center of the warlock’s chest. He has nowhere to run to. Fighting is pointless. He’s hoping for near painless. But no. The Nein will play out this one favorite decree of his eldritch master. “Punish.”

Like Mollymauk, like Beau, like Fjord, like Caleb – the blade goes right through him. Yasha pulls it out slowly, but Fjord is grabbing the warlock from behind before he can fall. The Star Razor glows brightly as he presses it against the man’s throat and slides it slowly across.

Fjord leans in as he does, growling, “Punish.”

There are a pair of hands waiting to grab the warlock by the throat when he’s released. Two blue hands cup the wound as his life drains from two mortal wounds. Jester has never liked healing as much as harming, but this... this she thinks as she knits the wound back together just enough that he’ll live to suffer longer – this is the perfect balance of the two.

“Punish,” She hisses and lets him drop to his knees.

“Punish.” He hears before the wounds that had started to heal are **ripping open** as beetles swarm and push to crawl inside him. They enter his throat by the new slit and that almost slows the bleeding but it starts to choke him.

Veth weaves her spell. The warlock howls his laughter, spewing blood and beetles between hysterical sounds that will haunt the dreams of the court when she says, “ **Punish.** ” He doesn’t find it funny but the Nein do and that’s enough to make it a joke.

The warlock is seizing, convulsing, some wicked demonic like _thing_ that was a threat for a moment only. Beauregard does not grin at him, does not cast a spell or raise a blade. She takes his face in her hands so softly, so in contrast to the wrath that is unfathomable in her eyes. “Punish,” she says as his final sentence before execution. Her arms move, twisting, strong and fast, ripping his entire head off to toss to the ground by his body. It sags and collapses forward, spilling beetles and blood from both broken parts.

They have always seemed harmless even in victory, vying for peace and offering kindness and cupcakes. The most powerful people in the world had looked upon them and forgotten to fear the anger of the gentle.

Stillness falls over the room. Has it been a minute? Less? More? The battle is over but it had only just begun, yet the room is filled with bodies that look like they’ve been dragged through several levels of hell and back. The victors look feral – foreign to themselves – but just as fast they are falling to their knees beside their fallen. There is wailing, from more than one of them, and tears from them all. 

There has not even been time to call for more guards from outside the room yet.

They are each reaching out, holding, touching him in some way. Veth is at one side, gripping his hand tightly. Beau is at his head, putting it to rest in her lap, as Fjord and Yasha drop to their knees by his feet with a hand each grabbing a leg like they need to know the _body_ is still there even if the soul isn’t. Because they’ve nearly lost each other’s bodies before and the terror of that has never lost them. Because they’ve had to leave the bodies of their friends behind before and the grief of that is always with them.

Jester is on his other side, hands over his chest, a diamond in her hands. Caduceus’ massive frame is small as he curls inwards closer to watch right next to her. His hands are extended, one on Caleb’s side and the other hovering, shaking, waiting to act if Jester somehow fails.

Breathing has begun in the court again. The danger is passed and the clerics will bring back the fallen wizard. That shadow appears, the one barely glimpsed in flashes of green and mirth, beside Veth on Caleb’s other side. His hands settle over Jester’s and a moment passes where all should be well despite the stranger’s appearance but Jester is **screaming**. They all jerk back as if struck by lightning, stunned except for Jester who denies her god’s denial.

Beau is cursing – the figure or Caleb or their dead enemies or all the world, it’s hard to tell. “What the fuck do you mean it failed?”

Artagan doesn’t look at her, saddened for Jester and her grief and loss, more than for the dead wizard before him. “It was not enough. Perhaps he has died too many times. Perhaps you were a second too late.”

“ **No.** ” The tone of Jester’s voice, even after the hell she’d raised in battle, is something that shocks them. The Nein in that moment each wonder if they’ve ever seen Jester angry and Beau recalls a moment once on their boat when she’d said it would be a sight to behold. “You will bring him back.”

“Jester...” He tries to placate with a soft but stern tone she won’t stand for.  
“You will bring him back!” He has never denied her, never had to. The power she’s granted him has always been enough for him to give her whatever she wished. “You are only a god because of me. You ascended because of my belief and if you don’t bring him back I will **_rip the godhood back out of you_** _._ ”

Jester turns and snatches the larger diamond Caduceus had begun to pull out from his hands. With both hands she thrust it forward, pressing it down into the familiar wound on Caleb’s chest. She looked up at her oldest friend, her first friend, her god, and bared her fangs.

“So **raise the fucking dead**.”

The Traveler is still for a moment. Even the gods beyond the divine gate are holding their breath. Gods have died today and what is one more to the Mighty Nein?

The diamond shatters, dust sinking into the wound as the form of the Artagan fades into nothing. His work is done and he’ll be stepping carefully around his patron saint from a while. For a moment the healing does not begin and Jester is ready to strangle an archfey to death. Then, in typical Caleb fashion, there are flames. It is a most unusual method of healing, to burn the wound out, but what else should they suspect.

First the wound glows like an ember, turning brighter red until the fire bursts from his chest, burning up from the back to turn ash into flesh and bone and blood. It rises until it is burning across sealed flesh without doing harm and then rises still into the air, converging and exploding like a small phoenix before it fades. Caleb jerks, back arching, eyes opening, he gasps for air and sits up despite them trying to stop him.

His friends let him go, giving him space to calm as life flows through him once more. One of his hands drops to support himself on the ground, landing on top of a renewed piece of amber that warms at his touch. He’s hot, feels like he fell asleep too close to the campfire and woke up sweating in the middle of the night. Caleb tastes smoke instead of blood in his mouth and shudders.

Gripping the amber he picks it up and flips his hand to stare at it. The Nein ask quietly if he’s alright, they’re all touching him again. Caleb is three seconds away from being hugged from every angle, but those three seconds are more than enough for his mind to reel at all the possibilities ahead. The snake would try again. And again and again and again. But he’d never get the orb. Not so long as it stayed in the vault or they found a way to destroy it again. Caleb would die to defend it so his family wouldn’t have to.

Not that they’d let him do so again.

He gasped, still only _just_ back from death, as his beloved Mighty Nein converged on him in the middle of a bloody throne room of stunned dignitaries, guards, and royals. Four different hands pressed to him were already pouring healing back into him, restoring him to full health despite their best efforts to squeeze it back out of him at the same time.

The Mighty Nein had proven in their display just how they had managed to save the world several times over. And they were just getting started. No one disturbed them for the moment, if not out of respect and decency then fear of punishment should they dare.


End file.
